“Thou hast not gone with thy friends, then,” said Ali, with evident relief at seeing me. “No. I think of remaining at Banda for a while,” I replied. Ali’s face fell. “That is a pity,” said he, “for we had intended to start at once for Ogúa. Osman knoweth the way well, and he sayeth he can take us thither in eighteen or twenty days.” My heart gave a bound. Eighteen or twenty days! In three weeks I might, with reasonable good fortune, be on board ship, or even at Quittah. The thought was intoxicating. “To speak the truth,” I said, “I like not the way in which thou and thy brethren pilfer from the country people.” “We will do so no more,” replied Ali persuasively. “We are not now so poor, for we have earned a little here, and thou hast enough for thyself. If we promise to steal from no one wilt thou come with us?” It was a great temptation. If I went with them I should be in Cape Coast in three weeks, with all my troubles and hardships behind me, whereas if I waited at Banda it might be weeks before I met with any travellers bound thither, for I had learned that most of the European trade was conducted not with Cape Coast but with Kinjabo (Grand Bassam). I pondered for a minute, while Ali softly thrummed upon the balafu, and at length succumbed to the temptation. “Very well,” I said. “I have thy promise to pilfer no more. Wait here while I put my things together, and we will start.” It was a fateful resolution. CHAPTER XXII. A CATASTROPHE. In less than an hour we were on the road, stepping out briskly towards the south. A good store of provisions was in our scrip, and we had that comfortable feeling of being independent of the vicissitudes of the hour that accompanies a well-lined purse. The musicians strode on ahead, Osman leading, and as they went they chattered gaily, and broke out from time to time in snatches of song. Aminé and I walked some distance behind that we might talk more freely, for neither of us felt any desire to increase our intimacy with the minstrels. “Yúsufu,” said Aminé suddenly, when we had left the town behind, “what was it that thou hadst in thy hand when Abduláhi and I came upon thee sitting under the tree?” “In my hand?” I repeated, considerably disconcerted by the question. “Yes. Thou didst hide it when I spoke, so I said nothing, because Abduláhi was there.” I was surprised at her discretion, and after a moment’s reflection decided to get the explanation over at once. I therefore drew out the locket (which I had not yet sewn up in its hiding place) and opened it. Aminé gazed at the two faces in blank amazement, and for a time spoke not a word. “What is it?” she asked at length; “is it witchcraft?” and then with sudden suspicion, “who are they? Who is the woman?” “She is the maid who is to be my wife,” I replied, feeling about as comfortable as a polar bear might in a Turkish bath, and perspiring almost as freely. “The old man is her father.”